


Om

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Vignette, WTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:14:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil stress bakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Om

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “His chefs and guards have never understood why their lord turns to baking when he's stressed, but since he's not running around being stupid, they can't complain.” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=25733378#t25733378).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

By chance, she passes Legolas in the halls. Given the strenuous morning they’ve had, it seems wise to ask, “Have you seen the king today, my lord?” There’s a good chance he won’t be on his throne, though Tauriel was headed there. 

She isn’t particularly surprised when Legolas says, “I believe he is in the kitchens.” The prince’s voice has a slight sigh in it: perhaps embarrassment over his father’s odd habits. Tauriel respectfully bows her head in thanks and moves on without comment. Personally, she’d rather King Thranduil oddly enjoy the kitchen than other, more destructive pastimes, such as racing off for a hunt or drumming up vengeful decrees. At least this way she and her fellow guards can keep an eye on him, though his latest hobby hardly requires supervision. 

The kitchens are already open when she arrives, the grand doors thrown open with one soldier on either side. Both royal guards nod to her as she passes, and two more stand inside, perched stoically against the curved walls. The usual staff has cleared out to secondary facilities, leaving the main room to their king. Thranduil bustles about in the center, clearly wrapped up in his own world. 

There’s something vaguely comical about seeing the stern king in an apron. It’s specially tailored and intricately embroidered, the bow at the back hanging like willow branches instead of a matronly tie, but it still looks bizarrely _civilian_ against the rest of his long, silver robes. His elaborate crown is still twisted around his head, his golden-white, silken hair braided neatly down his back so as to not fall into his food. He doesn’t bother to look up as she enters, instead rifling through drawers in search of certain tools. 

Tauriel approaches the main enclave with careful steps. She has no wish to disrupt her king’s rituals, but prudent information has come to light. While Thorin Oakenshield is the clear leader of their new prisoners, she has reason to believe that he is not the only dwarf with knowledge of their quest. The older one with the long, white beard strikes her as both close to Thorin’s council and far less stubborn, and perhaps he could be reasoned with. But it should still prove a thorny situation, and given Thranduil’s retreat into his baking, the poor king is stressed enough without more fruitless dwarf negotiations.

That’s part of her job. As Tauriel reaches the long, oak table across from Thranduil, he turns away from her and bends. Tilting to the side to peer around him, Tauriel watches Thranduil draw a tray of cookies out of the stone oven, currently alight with fire. He brings the tray over to the table and slips it onto the surface, neatly placing the two cloths he used to protect his hands aside. Tauriel eyes the cookies on the tray: several rows of brown Elven figures, with round heads, outstretched arms, and splayed legs. Rudimentary shapes, but impressive, given that Thranduil only ever cooks when he’s stressed. He picks up a long, brush-like tool, and dips it into a nearby bowl of white semi-liquid, likely frosted icing. Bringing it over to paint his cookies, Thranduil asks, “What news do you bring me?” He doesn’t bother to look up at her, instead intent on drawing twin lines down the shoulders of the cookie in the top right corner. Different than all the others, it’s already been carved to have a line across its forehead—perhaps a ringlet or crown—and a simplified face: a frown, two dots for eyes, and two angry-looking eyebrows. 

The rest of the cookies are faceless, and Thranduil is panting a sweater onto another when Tauriel responds, “It is about the dwarves, my lord.”

He says, “Yes,” half bluntly and half full of irritation. He places the brush down across the bowl and instead picks up one of the cookies. He goes straight to biting off its head, and Tauriel can’t help but wonder if he’s pretending that particular figure is Thorin Oakenshield. 

Indulging him to temper his frustration over their difficult prisoners, Tauriel points at the cookie with the face and says, “This one is particularly artful, my lord.”

“That is Legolas,” Thranduil says matter-of-factly, which makes Tauriel instantly grit her teeth, crushing the urge to laugh. She has half a mind to ask for it, if only to hunt the prince down and show him what his father thinks of him. But then, perhaps it is a compliment that he’s being thought of at all. Clearly none of the other cookies carry personas, even if the Legolas cookie does bear a bratty expression. Gesturing across the tray, Thranduil surprises her by offering, “You may have one of the others.” Clearly, cookie-Legolas is no more available to her than its namesake.

Tauriel tentatively picks a stout little figure near her corner. Then she takes one of the tall seats on her side of the table, sampling her cookie’s foot before beginning, “When it comes to dwarves...”


End file.
